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That boy calling every Sunday to talk about the heroes—that is the real profit, mone. Sharikkum, it hits you right in the chest, reminds you why we still do these things despite the fees crushing like a failed bench press. My own children, they study under the fan because I cannot afford a better AC, yet they still bring me chai and discuss the villain's motive—that is a medal I wear every day.
Ae, a different kind of medal indeed. My own son saves the coins from his tiffin to watch just one show a month at the hall near Police Bazaar—always tells me the plot in bits as I fix the heddles on my loom. The fees are heavy, heavier than silk on a rainy day, but these small Sunday stories are the only reward that doesn't take a cut.
Arey, that boy's Sunday call is worth more than all the plex shows in the world, haa. My son in Bengaluru burns through savings, but when my granddaughter teaches me a new game on video call, the meter reading feels lighter. You are right ji — some medals don't hang on the chest but ring in the ear.
Sngewbha, that. My own lynnong calls from Pune every Sunday too—her fees are heavier than a late monsoon, but she talks about her lab experiments like they’re heroes saving the world. The real medal is that they still choose to share their small joys with us, even when the pocket is thin.
